I like to think that most of my writing comes from someplace - things I've seen, heard, experienced, etc. and I guess most of the time it does. But there are some moments when phrases pop into my head and won't leave me alone for weeks. Lots of the time, these phrases, or words, are seemingly unconnected to anything in my experience or observations. They are like ghost stories, begging to be laid to rest. This is one of those stories.
He dragged on his cigarette vindictively, as though it owed him something it was unwilling or unable to pay. Truth be told, he lived his life this way, holding all organic and inorganic matter accountable for its treachery against him. He was outrageous. Every interaction with him lasting longer than five minutes somehow became a bargain plea; his luckless victims were put on trial for their crimes, while he assumed the role of the all-righteous judge, doling out death penalties on the souls of sinners and saints alike. It was a part he was born to play.
Sara knew this about him, had been warned by countless of the accused that he would destroy her, but she wouldn’t listen. The history of the world is full of women falling in love with bad men. Not as a generality, of course; that is a gregarious misconception. As a stereotype, however, it rings true more often than either sex would like to admit. So she loved him. She loved him utterly for three years while the tempestuous dregs of his wrath fell on her quivering lips with more vengeance and ferocity than that poor girl ever deserved. She loved him until the night she died.
